of gasping cuts and violet eyes
by shucky motherfucky
Summary: PINK FLOYD FANDOM Syd has a mishap when he is tuning his guitar one day, and Roger helps him. Yes, I actually wrote a Pink Floyd slash-type story. It's utterly harmless though, honesstly. I'll be writing more, by the way. Thought i'd warn you.


**TITLE:** of gasping cuts and violet eyes  
**AUTHOR:** Pepperrrr  
**RATING:** PG for blood and swearin.  
**PAIRINGS:** Roger Waters & Syd Barrett  
**WARNINGS:** Blood, swearing, fluff, pink floyd slashin whuuut, a slight change in writing style because I JUST WANTED TO GET IT DOOOONE, etc.  
**P.O.V:** Third person.  
**DATE WRITTEN:** April 26th 2012 2:05-2:10 pm, 2:15-2:27 pm, 4:16-4:30 pm 7:19-7:25 fuckin pm.  
**SUMMARY:** Syd has a mishap when he is tuning his guitar one day, and Roger helps him.  
**AUTHOR NOTES:** This may be insanely stupid looking and sounding when you read it but URGH i wanted to post a Floyd fic something awful. I just love Roger/Syd since Syd's the only person Roger really cared about and continued to do so regularly (obviously, if you look at his lyrics and references, you just start sighing after a while like "syd _again_, roger?". It's quite sweet, really. I just wish Roger dear wasn't such an asshole to the others  
like kicking pretty ass Rick out of the band for like no apparent reason. He just did not get along with that man did he...?  
God Rick was so pretty.  
Anyway, there are too many examples of Roger being a TOTAL FUCKING DICK to his bandmates, but i've never read a single one where he was a dick to Syd.  
Except for the possibility that he was the one that said 'Lets not bother' when asked if they should pick Syd up. No one will come forth and say that they said it. So yeah. DUDE DUDE DUDE THESE AUTHOR NOTES ARE GOING ON FOREVARRHH. And I bet no one will even read this too, man dude bro oh FUCK WHY AM I WASTING MY TIME.  
Wait. /puts my bret hart shades on;;  
Who gives a fuck, it's my account and I can post what I want.  
If you read that to the tune of the Animals' It's My Life, you get extra points.  
Also, I have no fuckin clue what colour Roger's eyes are man, i'm just guessing pffft.  
OH HOLY NIGHT, THE AUTHOR NOTES ARE LONGER THAN THE DAMN STORY, THAT IS JUST DEPRESSING. Well, it seems longer. JeAYSUS CHROIST.

* * *

Strings always rust and pop and unwind. Tuning was dangerous. Dangerous. Like a guitar string popping loose and striking you in the face or the hand. Oh, like what was happening now.

His heart skipped as the string popped and dug into his finger, rushing by then cutting into the skin of his third finger and palm in a flash. He could only gasp and drop the guitar, scooting his chair back along the floor, wood on wood squealing protest as he gripped his injured hand.  
"Hey!" Roger shouted quickly when he heard all the combined noises, the gasp, the possible yelp, the wood noises, and the dropped guitar. He jumped up from his own chair and put his bass down, going over to his artist.

"What happened?" He asked, concern creasing his face as he knelt next to the younger man.  
"The s-string.. it.." The artist babbled breathlessly, dark violet eyes going from the gasping cut in his hand to the concerned bluegreen gaze of his friend. His friend just shook his head slightly and bent in closer to-

"Don't touch it, Roger!" The artist cried, swatting Roger's hand away as it reached to tend to his cut. The taller man rolled his eyes and scoffed.  
"You want me to help, right?" Dark violet eyes turned upwards and glared stubbornly at his friend's angular face.

"How the fuck am I s'posed to help if I can't 'touch it'?" The eyes turned away and glared holes into the now quiet floor, and the injured hand was pushed closer to the older man.  
_'That's what I thought.'_

* * *

Cuts and wounds were cleaned and bandaged up  
(from a torn scarf Roger had and decided he didn't need it-Syd needed it more)  
and Roger was now in the bathroom, washing his hands and thinking of his dearest friend, who was now back in the other room, sitting in his chair. Not Syd's chair, Roger's chair. But Roger hadn't a clue.

He blinked when he heard Syd's voice softly sounding from the room, and he turned the water off, wiped his hands on his stupid vertical-striped pants, and walked quietly into the doorway to see Syd  
(that's my chair! damnit Syd!)  
apologizing to his guitar. His heart tugged and so did the corners of his mouth at the sight and sound. Syd really was the most extroverted, whimsical thing Roger'd ever know, wasn't he?

"It needs a string and a tune doesn't it?" Roger heard himself say, and he saw Syd turn his curly head in shock. He blushed a little, and mumbled something under his breath,  
(yes)  
and Roger walked over to where he sat.

He noticed Syd was holding his guitar in a deathgrip, knuckles white and eyes staring dimly ahead, face looking intensely concerned about something.  
Oh.  
"I'll tune it for you, Syd." He offered, and Syd woke from his mental coma, and looked up at Roger, his hypnotic eyes in full effect as they shimmered. Roger felt his heart jolt.

"Really?"  
"Anything that'll help you in keeping that hand." Roger laughed and Syd laughed and no one got injured by guitars again, thanks to very attentive Rogers.

* * *

DUDE THIS SUCKS.


End file.
